Secret North

by G. J. Walker-Smith

  “What’s your name?” he asked, pulling himself together and putting his teeth back in.

  “Bridget Décarie.”

  “Bridget, huh? Are you French?”

  The attempt at being funny was wasted on her. She answered honestly. “Sometimes.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” He laughed again. “A baby Bardot.”

  They were fast friends after that. Tiger even gave her a special backstage tour, which was further than I’d ever got. I even managed to talk him into stubbing out his cigar. “Oh, right,” he agreed. “Not good for the baby.”

  She was hardly a baby but I didn’t argue. He called me kid, for crying out loud.

  I carried Bridget as Tiger led us to the dressing room. “I can walk,” she protested.

  “I’d rather carry you.” I was worried that she’d fall through a rotten floorboard.

  “Are you scared, Ry?” she whispered, pressing her hands to my cheeks.

  “No,” I whispered back. “Are you?”

  “No.”

  She should’ve been. We seemed to be walking downhill as we made our way down the poorly lit corridor. The small white door creaked as Tiger pushed it open, adding to the unease. He flicked on the light before venturing inside. “A treasure trove of delights,” he announced, stretching his arms wide. “Come and see.”

  As reluctant as I was to let her go, I lowered Bridget to her feet. She pretended to take her time looking around. She held her hands behind her back, presumably to stop herself from touching anything. I knew Bridget well. The urge to reach out and grab the sparkly wares on offer must have been killing her.

  The dressing room was strangely reminiscent of Ivy’s living room, just dustier. Coloured feather boas and glittery headpieces hung off a rickety wooden hatstand, and a rail of dresses stood between two dressing tables. It was as if life at the old club has stopped dead one night and everything had been abandoned. There was even a box of old shoes in the corner.

  A strange sadness gripped me. Tiger wasn’t looking too good either. I doubt he’d been in here for years.

  “Good memories, Tiger?” I asked, trying to sound cheery.

  “The very best, kid,” he replied wistfully. “It was a different world back then.”

  “Uncle Ryan,” interjected Bridget. She’d called me Uncle and Ryan. It was a sure-fire sign that there was some serious sweet-talking on the way.

  “Yes, niece Bridget?”

  She stepped close and whispered. “Can I have one of those?” She pointed to the hatstand. “I really love them.”

  As expected, Tiger heard every word. He grabbed the hatstand and tilted it so it was at her level. “Take anything you want, baby Bardot.”

  It was a dangerous offer. She was probably gearing up to stuff the whole lot into her boots.

  “One thing, Bridge,” I added.

  She barely hesitated, picking a gold sequined headband that sprouted a white feather taller than her. I dusted it off as best I could before setting it on her head and pulling the elastic strap under her chin.

  “Do I look like an angel?”

  “Oui, ma jolie. Un trés bel ange.” I reminded her to thank Tiger. “N’oublie pas le mot magique.”

  Excitement got the better of her and she thanked him in French.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he replied, chewing his dead cigar. “She really is a baby Bardot.”

  ***

  Keeping an eye on Bridget as she ran around the floor of the main room was easy thanks to the showgirl feather on her head. It acted as a marker beacon.

  Tiger used her moment of distraction to pull me aside. The conversation was not one I was expecting. He wanted to talk business. He had completely changed his tune, and the club was back on the market.

  “I think you’d be good for the place,” he told me. “I don’t think you’d demolish it or remodel it into flashy condos.”

  Altering the building to that extent would be nothing short of criminal. It needed to be brought back to its former glory, not destroyed.

  I couldn’t deny that I was excited by his change of heart, but my poker face when it came to business was stellar. “I need to talk to my brother. He’s my business partner.”

  “Do what you need to do,” Tiger agreed. “Bring your brother over to check it out and then we’ll talk.” He wanted to meet with Adam and I that night. All I had to do was get Adam to agree. I decided to strike while the iron was hot and call him.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” announced Tiger, already walking away. The double doors to the foyer swung shut and he was gone.

  I must’ve caught Adam at the right moment. He agreed to come to the club on his way home from work. I gave him the address and ended the call before he changed his mind.

  Bridget called out to me. I spun around to see her flat on her back in the middle of the floor.

  “Bridge, get up,” I ordered. “It’s filthy.”

  She didn’t move a muscle. “We found it, Ry,” she announced.

  I walked over to her, hooked my hands under her arms and lifted her to her feet. “Found what?”

  “Secret North!”

  “How do you know?”

  My eyes followed her pointing hand. “Flowers on the roof,” she sang.

  I hadn’t noticed the pressed tin ceiling, which was a shame because it was one of the nicest features of the place. Too many layers of white paint covered the intricate details, but the pattern was unmistakably floral.

  “There are flowers on the roof,” I agreed. “You think this is the place?”

  “Yes!” She lurched forward and hugged my legs, making her feather wobble. “Happy, happy day, Ry,” she beamed. “You found your place.”

  I thought back to the other characteristics she’d told me to look for while searching for the elusive Secret North. As well as the flowers on the roof, it was supposed to be special.

  It was definitely special. I’d fallen in love with it before I’d even made it through the door. But Bridget had also promised a great view, claiming that I’d be able to see everything from there. That’s where her La La theory began to crumble – I couldn’t see anything other than a potentially great restaurant location. But I wasn’t about to burst her bubble.

  Perhaps now that she’d found the secret place we’d been seeking for over a month, we could spend time at the playground instead of wandering around with a compass.

  “Well, Bridget,” I told her. “If this really is my place, I think we should buy it.”

  44. PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE

  Bente

  It was beginning to feel as if I was living two lives. As far as life with Ryan went, I was happier than I’d ever imagined I’d be. On the job front, I was probably at the lowest point in my life.

  Spare time after my shifts at Billet-doux were spent scouring the internet for positions better suited to my qualifications. I was getting desperate and trying not to let it show. I didn’t want to burden Ryan. I wanted to keep the good in my life good so I called my sister and hit her with it instead.

  “Why are you stressing about it, Bente?” asked Ivy. “I’m sure your boyfriend will take care of you.”

  I matched her caustic tone with one of my own. “I don’t want Ryan to take care of me. I want to write for a living.”

  “Keep looking then,” she urged. “Sooner or later something will come up.” That was the most encouragement I was going to get from her because her focus was elsewhere. The girls were at war in the living room, using pageant prizes as weapons. “Malibu, put the sceptre down!” she yelled, right in my ear. “If anyone’s going to get whacked with it, it’ll be you!”

  “I’ll talk to you later, Ivy,” I said dully.

  “Wait,” she replied. “Are you sure you’re okay? I need to know you’re okay.”

  “I’m good, Ivy,” I assured. “Thanks for being there for me.”

  “I’m always here,” she said sincerely. “And you’re a good writer, Bente. Don’t let anyone tell
you otherwise.”

  Despite the mayhem in the background, my sister’s words were hugely calming. I couldn’t be sure that she heard me thank her. As I spoke, she yelled Malibu’s name and the line went dead.

  ***

  I knew I had a few hours before Ryan was due home. I decided to keep my good life good by surprising him with dinner. I stopped at the gourmet deli on the way home and grabbed a few different salads, an antipasto platter and a couple of blueberry bagels for no other reason than they looked delicious. Dinner was prepared, which left me plenty of time to concentrate on the things I planned on surprising him with after dinner.

  I took a long bath, blow-dried my hair, painted my nails and still had time to kill. That was the moment I decided I could never be a stay-at-home girlfriend. It would kill me. I was so bored that I was actually hoping one of Ryan’s ex-playthings would pick that afternoon to show up. I looked good, which meant I was ready for battle.

  When the intercom buzzed half an hour later, I almost squealed in delight as I rushed to answer it. “Yes?”

  “Bente, darling.” My heart both dropped and began thumping. It was Fiona Décarie. “I can’t get in. Who changed the code?”

  “I’ll buzz you in,” I replied, holding my finger on the button. “Come on up.”

  I spent the five minutes it took her to get upstairs to figure out the reason for her visit. Ryan hadn’t mentioned she was coming so I could only assume that she wasn’t there to see him.

  I opened the door as soon as she knocked. “Hello darling,” she crooned, leaning in to kiss my cheeks. She was carrying an armload of dresses so I lightened her load by grabbing a few.

  “How are you, Fiona?”

  “Wonderful, darling,” she replied, making her way to the couch and draping the stack of dresses over it. “I know you’re attending that strange girl’s wedding soon. I thought you might like something pretty to wear.”

  I didn’t know whether to take offense or not. I had a closet full of pretty dresses thanks to Ivy’s brilliant dressmaking skills. Trieste, on the other hand, probably would’ve been offended by being referred to as strange. “Trieste is a sweet girl.” Defending her seemed odd. I’d only met her once but Ryan and Adam were fond of her so it felt like the right thing to do.

  “Sweet but whacky,” she amended, taking the dresses from my arms. “I’m terribly relieved she’s not marrying into my family. One is enough.”

  “One what?”

  It was a redundant question. I knew she was referring to Charli.

  “One sweet but whacky girl.” Fiona smiled. “I’m thrilled that Ryan has finally settled down with a nice girl.”

  Hiding the embarrassment that burned my cheeks was impossible. Ryan hadn’t settled. Ryan was trying to settle, but that was a difficult concept to explain, especially to his mother.

  “Are these dresses all yours?” I asked, changing the subject. “They’re lovely.” I wasn’t lying. From what I could tell, they were all couture and stunning.

  “No, darling.” She sounded amused. “They’re all yours.”

  Charli had warned me that she liked to dress people. It was something that the youngest Mrs Décarie had struggled with for years, and I now understood why. It was an extremely passive aggressive gesture. The struggle came because the clothes were too damned gorgeous to turn down.

  “Charli favours vintage dresses,” she explained, spreading a black silk dress across the couch. “She’s petite and whimsical. I think she looks lovely in pastel chiffon and soft lace.”

  “She does,” I agreed.

  “You have a more exotic look,” she declared. “Velvet and silk and dark colours.”

  I was back to toying with the idea of being outraged, but couldn’t bring myself to tell her off. Standing my ground became even more difficult when she held up the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen. It was navy blue silk halter dress.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I love it,” I replied honestly.

  She thrust it at me. “Try it on.”

  I changed into the dress as quickly as I could, unwilling to leave her alone in the living room for a second longer than necessary. Despite the rush, I just wasn’t quick enough. When I returned she was in the kitchen, snooping around in the fridge.

  “Are these leftovers, darling?” she asked, holding up one of the containers of salad I’d just bought.

  “No, it’s dinner.”

  Clearly unimpressed, she put the salad back. “Ryan is a wonderful cook,” she boasted, closing the fridge. “He gets it from me.”

  In order to keep the peace, I agreed with her. “Ryan cooks most nights,” I explained. “He has a late meeting this afternoon. That’s why I picked up a salad.”

  “Don’t you cook?” she quizzed.

  “I can, but Ryan prefers to. It makes him happy.”

  Fiona walked around to my side of the counter and took my face in her hands. I endured it as best I could. “You’ll make a wonderful wife,” she declared before releasing me.

  A few thoughts spun through my mind, and all were troubling. I got the impression that she’d lost all hope of Charli becoming the obedient little wife for Adam, but saw potential in me. I was also bothered that she was already marrying us off. We’d barely been together a month.

  I took a step back, out of her space. “He has to ask me first.” It was a foolish thing to say. I’d given her hope that it was a possibility.

  “It’s time he settled down,” she told me. “I want that for him.”

  I nodded, at a total loss for words. I picked up the hem of my dress and fanned it out. “What do you think?” I asked.

  “It’s lovely,” she approved. “Everything about you is lovely.”

  45. HAPPY HEART

  Ryan

  I delivered Bridget home and rushed back to the club to meet Adam. She probably could’ve stayed but I didn’t want the distraction of having her running around while we were discussing business. I met Adam outside and gave him the rundown before going in.

  “I can already tell it needs a lot of work, Ryan.” He ran his hand along the iron balustrade. “Are you sure it’s viable?”

  I grinned at him. “Wait until you see the inside.”

  One thing that impresses Adam is good architecture. I knew he was sold before he even made it through the foyer. Once he started tapping walls and stamping on floorboards I knew he was hooked. “It’s freaking gorgeous,” he admitted.

  “Isn’t it?” asked Tiger, making his way down the roped-off stairs.

  I quickly introduced them. “Baby Bardot’s father?” he asked, unhooking the rope barrier.

  “Yes,” I confirmed, speaking for him. “Bridget’s dad.”

  Adam smiled. “You’ve met her?”

  “Earlier today,” confirmed Tiger. “She left her mark.” Not even I knew what that meant – until he waved us through to the main room. A million tiny boot prints dotted the dusty floor.

  “You should’ve given her a broom,” said Adam.

  “I don’t have one,” replied Tiger making us both laugh.

  ***

  The tables were still set up from the party on Saturday night. We sat down at the poker table and negotiations got underway.

  In my head, it was a pretty cut-and-dried deal. I planned to offer Tiger a fair price, take possession of the building, restore it to its former glory and reopen as a classy cocktail lounge. It didn’t take me long to work out that the deal was going to be anything but cut-and-dried. If you ask the right questions, you get the right answers, and Adam was good at asking the right questions.

  “What’s upstairs?” he asked.

  “My home. I live up there.”

  That wasn’t good. Not only was the old man losing his club, he was losing his home – and I didn’t think I was cutthroat enough to do that to him. The ground the sale stood on suddenly became shaky and the deal began to crumble before my eyes.

  Expecting Adam to reel it back in was
hopeless. He had even more of a conscience than I did. He stared blindly at the far wall, absently stacking poker chips. “It’s not for us, Ryan.”

  I glanced at Tiger, seeing a mix of relief, worry and sorrow on his face. “What if we just buy a share?” I suggested. “We can restore it and get it up and running. Tiger can continue to live upstairs.”

  It was a solution to a few problems. The old man got to keep his home and, if the venture was successful, make a few bucks along the way. Meanwhile, we’d be part owners of one of the most glorious old buildings I’d ever seen.

  “What do you think, Mr Malone?” asked Adam.

  “This building has seen better days,” replied Tiger, leaning back and folding his arms. “I have too. If what you’re offering me is a chance to see her brought back from the dead, I’d be a happy man.”

  “That’s what we’re offering you,” I confirmed.

  The struggle to hang on to his beloved club had obviously been going on for a long time. Like the hard old coot that he was, he bit down on his cigar and nodded. “We should celebrate,” he declared, levering himself to his feet.

  As he made the slow walk to the bar I used the time to ponder what we were getting ourselves into. Adam was probably doing the same thing. Realistically, it could be years before we started turning a profit. The renovations would be costly, and we were behind the eight ball before we even started, thanks to years of back taxes that needed cleaning up.

  “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” I asked quietly.

  Adam’s eyes drifted to the stack of chips in his hand. “It’s only money,” he replied. “And it’ll make your heart happy.”

  I usually kicked up at La La comments, but for once I kept quiet. He was right; and I was beginning to enjoy having a happy heart.

  ***

  I should’ve known when Tiger returned to the table with whiskey and three dirty glasses that we were in for a long night. He spent the next few hours plying us with booze and regaling us with stories. I wasn’t convinced that they were all true, but they were interesting. Tiger Malone had lived a rock star life. He’d dabbled in everything from running the club to owning racehorses.